Wednesday, 24 June 2020

To the Fetus, or Its Father, or Both

by Clarice Hare

Alone in the soft darkness of my
delirium, far from the loneliest
tree, you swim without fins, without
limbs: whirling, unaccountable, on or
in some sea. Symbolizing
humanness: its eternal
splitting, that clasp and
penetration that dooms you and
me and all before and any
after to the infinite diversions of a
wounded angel. To the scourges
of inchoate imagination; to the
limitations of the earth’s
reserves of colors and refrains. To
scratch words that would be worlds on
barren flints. That which my hand is
reaching out for, but as yet lacks eyes
to see. Which falls forever from
the sky, without ever wholly
leaving it.

* * * * *

Clarice Hare has been writing her entire life, but is new to publication. Though born in humble circumstances, she received a privileged education and has explored both outer and inner worlds widely. She currently lives in obscurity in the southern United States with an assortment of furry and scaly pets.


  1. Profound. This alone set my head a'whirling: "infinite diversions of a wounded angel,"